


Stepfather

by cheshireArcher



Category: Henry V - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Biphobia, Bisexuality, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Step-parents, not-so-established relationships, only a little sadness this time, politicians in love, the rest is all fluff, this has next to no relation to canon, utter crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-15 13:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshireArcher/pseuds/cheshireArcher
Summary: Joan, daughter of Charles de Orléans, has come to view the Constable as her stepfather. This has some unexpected consequences.





	Stepfather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gentle_herald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentle_herald/gifts).



> Historicity note: There is none. Okay, there actually is. Charles, Duke of Orleans had a daughter, Jeanne/Joan, by his first wife, Isabel of Valois (yes, that Isabel). Isabel died in childbirth, leaving Charles and their daughter. The stuff about Orleans' childhood is also true. 
> 
> This is based off of a conversation I had with a friend about what it would be like if Orleans' daughter was raised with help from other members of Team France. It was decided that Joan considers the Constable (called by his historical name, d'Albret here) to be her stepfather. After all, he is over quite a lot...
> 
> I honestly had such a hard time writing this because it has nothing to do with canon and is such crack. Maybe I'm just scarred from too much badfic. I can't believe it ended up this long, it's embarrassing. I've written research papers just a few pages longer than this was in Word.
> 
> Also, I know nothing about France. Or French for that matter. To clear up any questions on language, the characters are all speaking French and any term or phrase used in English but not French is, within this story, a French equivalent.

“This is Charles. He’s my stepdad.”

D’Albret looked up from the message he’d been reading on his phone. What did Joan just say?

“Pleasure to meet you, monsieur,” Joan’s teacher said, shaking the d’Albret’s hand, though he barely felt it. He was too busy with something he rarely experienced—his heart had just melted in his chest.

“Pleasure to meet you too,” he said, pulling himself back into reality. Orléans, Joan’s father, hadn’t been able to drop her off at school, so d’Albret had agreed to fill in, since it was on the way to his office. On his way out, he had met Joan’s teacher, a fortysomething lady who seemed to not recognize him and apparently didn’t know that Orléans wasn’t married. Must be new.

D’Albret didn’t hear anything else the teacher said, and he quickly said goodbye to Joan and set off for work, where he wouldn’t have to suppress his grin. He tried to keep his crusty exterior and his shields up but it was too hard now. Joan thought of him as her stepfather. That presented a problem, however, and as soon as he reached his office, he dialed Orléans’ personal phone, bypassing the fifteen or so secretaries he’d have to deal with before being put through to the Ministry of Transportation.

“Hey, Charles,” Orléans said. “Joan get to school okay?”

“Yes. Interesting you’d ask about her—”

“She’s my kid.”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about,” d’Albret said, putting his feet up on his desk. “Do you have a minute?” He raked his fingers through his short, dark hair as he often did when he was thinking. He imagined Orléans on the other end—brown curly hair, warm, soft face dusted with freckles... this was a useless exercise.

“Yes. Is something wrong?” Orléans asked, concern rising in his voice.

D’Albret rushed to assure him Joan was fine. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “Though, are you aware that we are married?”

Orléans must have been drinking his morning coffee, because there was the sound of him choking. _“What? ”_

“Joan introduced me to her teacher as her stepfather.”

“That’s adorable— wait, what?”

D’Albret stared up at the ceiling. “She knows about us,” he said. “That’s all I can think of, if she considers me her stepfather.”

“You’ve been around for a long time,” Orléans said. “You’ve been there for her. And for me.”

“It’s not just that,” d’Albret replied. “You and I have been together for what, four years? She was bound to find out sooner or later. For some reason I didn’t think she knew. I mean, Montjoy’s over a lot too, and she just thinks of him as your colleague.”

“He’s not over as much as you are, or as long.”

“…Good point.”

“And how do you feel about it? What Joan thinks, I mean.” Orléans wasn’t sure what to make of this declaration himself. Joan was his daughter, his only child, and the Constable was his partner. This must be his family.

D’Albret broke into a grin again. “I was certainly pleased she thinks so highly of me,” he said, trying and failing to suppress the growing joy.

“What is it I hear in your voice?” Orléans teased. “Are you actually… _happy_ , Charles?” d’Albret had a reputation in their circle as one of the biggest grouches in France, and he rarely let his guard down. His one soft spot was Orléans and by extension Joan.

“I don’t know how to feel,” d’Albret replied. “I love Joan, she’s a wonderful girl, and I love you, but I don’t… well, I suppose I haven’t thought about this ever happening.” He paused. “I’m just thankful her teacher didn’t recognize me,” he said, trying to move away from how he felt. He hated talking about his feelings.

“You were on TV just last week.”

“Apparently people don’t pay that much attention.”

Orléans sighed on the other end. “I have to go, I have a meeting in a few minutes.” He paused. “We can talk about this later.”

“Right,” d’Albret said. He still didn’t know what to do in this situation, or even why Joan calling him her stepfather affected him so much.

“I love you,” Orléans said. It sounded like he was packing up his briefcase.

“I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

Contrary to what d’Albret thought, Joan had actually known about him and her father for a while. A few years before she’d literally found him in her father’s bed. He had a tendency to stay late when he visited them, staying even past Joan’s bedtime, though she didn’t know why. On this particular occasion, he was, as usual, working late in bed, still in his day clothes—he was a certified workaholic. He was hammering on his laptop, occasionally glancing at or picking up one of the papers on the bed to read it over his glasses. Next to him, precariously on the edge, was Orléans, asleep after a long day at the office.

“Dad?”

D’Albret looked up from the report he was typing and his head went cold. Joan was standing in the doorway, looking a little confused. He looked over at Orléans, sound asleep. He then looked back at Joan and gestured to indicate that they should be quiet. “Need something?” He asked, when he’d closed his laptop and joined her at the door.

“What are you doing here in Dad’s room?” Joan whispered.

"I was working with him and he fell asleep. What’s up?” d’Albret was used to fielding questions he didn’t want to answer.

“I just wanted some water.” Joan was now seven and old enough to get Orléans up when she needed something.

“Okay,” d’Albret said, shoving his reading glasses back up his nose. “Let’s get a drink.”

They got something to drink, her the asked-for water and him a cup of coffee. They sat at the kitchen table like they were at a café and it wasn’t nearly midnight.

“Shouldn’t you not drink that?” Joan asked. “That will make you stay awake and you won’t sleep when you go home.”

“I need to stay awake,” d’Albret replied, secretly enjoying her bluntness. “I have a lot of work to do. Your dad was supposed to be helping but he fell asleep, lightweight.”

Joan giggled. “What do you do, Charles?” She asked, sounding more serious.

“I work for the government, like your dad does,” he said. “I make sure the country’s safe.”

Soon Joan was yawning, and so was he, despite his attempt at caffeination. Joan was falling asleep and he knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.

“Let’s get to bed…” he said gently, pulling her up and guiding her to her room. He got her into bed and tucked her in, gently stroking her hair. “Goodnight, Joan,” he whispered, but she was already asleep. He sat on the edge of her bed for a few minutes, watching over her. He wasn't sure why, but he'd found himself putting a great deal of love and effort into his part of helping raise her. He stroked her hair again, pulled the blanket up a bit more over her to keep her warm, and quietly left her to sleep.

He went back to bed himself. He looked at the pile of paperwork and his laptop, then at Orléans, who hadn't woken up. Sighing, he cleared away the work, reassuring himself that he’d pick it up tomorrow. For now, he lay down and put his arm over Joan’s father, kissed him, and fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

That had been nearly three years before, and Orléans and d’Albret were still together, although privately. No one in the government knew and the public certainly didn’t. Orléans worked for the Ministry of Transportation in a mid-level position in name only. His actual work was far more important—and secret. He was a high-ranking agent in the _Direction générale de la sécurité intérieure—_ General Directorate for Internal Security, or DGSI, and the job organizing bus routes was a cover. D’Albret, however, was always in the public eye as the Secretary General for National Security, the head of the _Secrétariat général de la défense et de la sécurité nationale_ —The Secretariat-General for National Defense and Security. As a nod to history, he’d gotten the nickname “Constable,” the title of one of the most powerful positions in Medieval France.

Most countries weren’t used to their head of national security sleeping with another member of the government, and if such a fact was made public a scandal would ensue. Neither wanted to deal with that, and their relationship had been conducted in secret. The only member of their circle who knew about their relationship was Montjoy, head of communication and public relations for King Charles, and he was as much a friend as he was a colleague. He certainly wasn’t going to reveal anything.

It was now three days after the stepfather incident. No one had brought it up and d’Albret hadn’t been by Orléans’ flat. The issue kept nagging at Orléans though. Joan knew about him and d’Albret. Why did that surprise him? And she considered him part of the family, and now her teacher thought they were married. He loved d’Albret, certainly, but hadn’t seriously thought of their future. His job had taught him that the future is uncertain. All he could plan was to keep Joan safe and his work from falling into enemy hands.

He told all this to Montjoy as they sat at a café not too far from the palace, where they had just finished a meeting with the King. Fortunately it had been a good day for Charles VI of France. Orléans wasn’t sure just how they could handle yet another episode. He had other things on his mind.

“Honestly, I don’t know what to do,” Orléans said. “We’ll be found out at some point and you know how that will go over.”

“Best case scenario the issue of same-sex unions will become more important than this specific one,” Montjoy said. “The controversy over you and d’Albret would become secondary to the larger issue. Attention would be directed away from the two of you.”

“And the worst case?”

“It starts a huge scandal and launches inquiries into all matters of your lives, you’re accused of getting your office via sleeping with d’Albret, he’s disgraced over the juicy sex scandal that the tabloids drum up and is easily taken advantage of by anyone in the government who dislikes either of you.” Montjoy took a sip of his coffee as if he hadn’t predicted the end of the world as Orléans knew it.

“Why does this have to be so difficult?” Orléans put his head in his hands. “I should have known, it’ll be found out someday. I suppose Joan made us realize that.”

“Do you blame her?”

“No. She’s a kid, she likes Charles, and has known him since she was three. And it’s not like she leaked it to the press. I don’t blame her, I couldn’t.”

Montjoy thought for a moment. “Having d’Albret in her life is very important,” he said finally. “She knows it maybe more than you do.”

“How so?”

“You’ve raised Joan essentially on your own—”

“Except for the Team, and Christine, too."

The team consisted of Orléans, Montjoy, d'Albret, Grandpré, Ramburres, and by extension parts of the royal family. Christine was the closest thing to a grandmother Joan had.

“Yes, except for help from us. But she’s only had one parent.”

“Spare me that, please. Everyone always says ‘Poor Joan, she needs a mother. It must be so hard for Orléans to raise a child on his own.’”

“I was going to say, d’Albret has taken the place of a second parent even when he didn’t have to. God only knows what made him do something like that in the first place.” Montjoy looked down at his cup of coffee—this was his fourth today. “You’re both great fathers, and Joan is lucky to have you. Now what do you intend to do if this goes public?”

“What can we do?”

“You have to figure that out with him, not me,” Montjoy replied. “The first thing you have to ask yourself is what future do you want?”

“You mean—”

“Yes. Do you want to marry Charles d’Albret?”

 

* * *

 

Orléans finally was able to talk to d’Albret in person a few days later, when he returned from attending a summit in Prague.

“Would you be adverse to being married?” Orléans asked. They were sitting in d’Albret’s office, which was furnished mainly with what appeared to be a decade’s worth of papers and files marked “top secret.” Orléans had always liked this office. It smelled of d'Albret's cologne, paper, and tobacco from the man who had the office last. It bore all the signs of a workaholic with its mountains of paperwork, two computer screens, and apparently permanent occupant, who Orléans especially liked.

“Is that a proposal?” d'Albret said, peering over his computer at his boyfriend.

“No—I mean, not really. Just a question to decide if there should be a proposal or not,” Orléans said.

“Say we did get married. What benefits would there be?”

“Same current benefits of companionship,” Orléans replied. “Then there would be the spousal benefits for some services and taxes.”

“Alright, second question,” said d’Albret. "This would probably require some public admission of our relationship, even if we do it quietly. We’re at the point where it’s probably going to go public anyway, we can’t stop it. I’m not sure how people would like knowing someone this high up in the government was openly gay. You said you talked to Montjoy about this?”

“Yeah. He said something like that. He said the best-case scenario is the issue gets back into the public’s interest and they end up ignoring us because they’re more concerned with fighting over the subject in general.”

“And worse?”

“There’s a huge scandal. Just what we need with the king being sick these days, more fuel to the fire that says France is headed toward disaster.”

“Why can’t people see this is a private matter?” d’Albret said, putting his head in his hands. Orléans knew this was even more frustrating for him. d’Albret was a very private person and didn’t like people being involved in his business. Orléans, while less one to clam up about things, agreed. This was supposed to largely be between them and because it was unusual, everyone would want to poke their noses into it.

“Okay, so how would we theoretically deal with this being public?” Orléans asked.

“Spin time,” d’Albret said. “Basic issue—the head of national security is gay.”

“His orientation has no bearing on his work.”

“Okay. Now—this marriage. Very… nontraditional, isn’t it?”

“We’re proud to live in France, a very progressive country that offers civil rights to all.”

“I like it. Now—there’s a child involved. Can two gay men properly raise a kid?”

“I’m not gay. And yes, they can. We have a loving relationship and family and are raising our daughter in this home.”

“Good one,” d’Albret said. “Torrid political sex scandal. Head of national security sleeping with another man in the government.”

“We’re in a proper, monogamous relationship and we bonded over our work and mutual concern for France’s welfare. Our relationship does not affect any aspect of our work and there is no favoritism.”

“God, you’re hot when you’re working spin,” d’Albret said, a grin pulling at a corner of his mouth.

“Oh, _really_?”

“ _Very._ ”

 

* * *

 

The two government officials’ relationship was soon known in parts of the office. Word would have spread faster had Montjoy not imposed a strict “need to know” clearance on the situation. A few other members of the team who worked closely with d’Albret and Orléans, namely Grandpré and Rambures, had found out. Then Louis heard. Louis was the biggest threat to the current status of secrecy, which was in place until something was officially decided. He had a big mouth and also happened to be the Dauphin. Not a good combination.

“So wait a second,” Louis said, looking from Orléans to d’Albret. “You two are _together_?” They had just concluded a meeting in preparation for another meeting later in the day with d’Albret’s English counterpart, Exeter, director of MI-6. Now the only ones left in the room were Orléans, d’Albret, and the Dauphin Louis.

“…Yes,” d’Albret said, annoyed that this had even come up.

“We are,” Orléans said. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You used to be married to a woman though!” Louis said, as if he found the idea preposterous. “You have a kid.”

“Yes. Yes I was. And yes I have a kid, a lovely daughter,” Orléans said, biting back the urge to add _who is far smarter than you_.

“But you’re gay.”

Orléans could tell this was going to be a long day. “I’m not gay,” he said, wondering how far he’d have to explain it to the usually clueless and tactless prince. “I’m bi. I can like both men and women.”

“That’s weird,” Louis replied.

“I don’t care,” Orléans said, packing up his briefcase. “I’ve gotten more than you ever will,” he added as an extra barb. He glanced over at d’Albret, who was checking his phone, probably looking to start a nuclear war to get out of this situation. He took his leave quietly.

Louis looked at d’Albret as the Orléans shut the door on his way out. “You’re gay, right?”

“None of your damn business."

 

Orléans tried to ignore Louis’s stupid comments about his bisexuality. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard something like that before, although it was the first time it had been directed at _him_. He should have known he’d get it at some point. He had never been very open about his preferences, it hadn’t mattered a great deal. He’d been married to a woman and he got on well with her and later he fell in love with a man. Simple as that.

It was all the worse for the fact that Louis had said it. He was an incredibly annoying person, who apparently thought he could get away with his obnoxious nature because he was the prince. Either that or he just didn’t care. That was something Orléans wasn’t used to, not caring about his actions. Being an active part of the government, especially since he was in national security, Orléans had to watch everything he did. He had far more responsibility than that bratty prince every would. He’d carried a heavy weight for what seemed his entire life. Everything had gone wrong for him in the worst ways possible and he rarely knew what to cling to—if there was any such thing in the first place.

He’d had even less than Joan did. He’d been orphaned by the time he was fourteen and he prayed every day that wouldn’t happen to his daughter. He hoped he lived a better life than his father, who’d been very good at making enemies. In the end it had killed him, and a year later Orléans’ mother had died. Orléans and his siblings had been shunted around relatives for a few years even though for some reason people thought that upper-class youths were less in need of adult guidance. One of the few people he found solace in was Christine, a writer who was a friend of his parents’. Christine had showed him how he now dealt with his emotions—writing. He had written over a hundred poems, some of them actually worth reading, since he was a teenager. He was indebted to her, she'd helped raise him and she'd helped with his daughter. He was so indebted to his team—to her, to Montjoy, to his boyfriend… 

He walked down the streets of the 12th arrondissement on his way home, passing through part of the Parc de Bercy. Leaves scattered around his feet as he walked, kicked up by the autumn wind. He wondered if there was a poem in this weather, although spring was more his time. He felt something else coming on, though, a completely different topic, and he pulled his phone out of his pocket and started a note before he forgot it. It was to be the most important poem he'd ever write.

 

* * *

 

 

Charles d'Albret unlocked his office door the next morning and sat behind the desk as usual. Something was waiting for him on his desk. How had someone gotten into here... the door was sealed with three different sorts of locks. His head went cold. This was a serious breach of security—

Then he looked at the item—just a piece of yellow paper from a legal pad with writing on it.

**_Shall it so be?_ **  
**_Shall I be thine?_ **  
**_Strife I resign_ **  
**_On bended knee._ **

**_To this one plea_ **  
**_Thine ear incline;_ **  
**_Shall it so be?_ **  
**_Shall I be thine?_ **

**_Envy may see_ **  
**_My faith I plight,_ **  
**_My dear delight;_ **  
**_Let us agree._ **  
**_Shall it so be?_ **  
**_Shall I be thine?_ **

It wasn't signed but he knew who had written it, even if how it reached his locked office was a mystery.

God, he loved Charles d'Orléans.

 

* * *

 

Orléans got home from work at half-past five that afternoon. “Sorry I was gone so long,” he said, on seeing Joan at the kitchen table doing her homework. His lectures on schoolwork must have finally been getting through. She was very intelligent, if a little less a nerd than him.

“It’s okay,” she said, looking up from the workbook. “Is everything okay with the government?”

“Everything’s fine,” he said, sitting down across from her. It was almost a joke between them, that he and d’Albret were in some way the government.

That reminded him.

“I talked to Charles today,” Orléans said. “He wanted to know how you’re doing.” He knew he had to talk to her about this sooner or later.

“Good,” Joan replied. She shoved the math workbook aside, apparently done for the day. “Why hasn’t he been around lately? Usually he’s over all night.”

_All night._

Orléans swallowed. “Yes, about that. He said that you said something very nice about him last week, that you think he’s like a stepfather to you.”

“Well, isn’t he?” No one could ever accuse Joan d’Orléans of not always getting straight to the point.

“I, ah, suppose you know why he stays over a lot?” This was either going worse or better than he had anticipated.

“Because he sleeps in bed with you,” she said matter-of-factly.

Orléans hoped she meant actual sleeping.

“…Yes. Do you know why that is?”

“He loves you, right?”

It was strange to hear it from someone else—especially her, but at the same time he loved it. “Yes,” Orléans said. “Charles and I have been in love for a while. I’ve—I’ve asked him to marry me.”

“Really?” Joan bolted upright in her chair, surprise and excitement in her voice. “What did he say?”

“I don’t know,” Orléans admitted. “I wrote him a letter of sorts asking him. I haven’t heard from him yet today.”

“Are you nervous?” Her voice was still full of excitement.

“I suppose so,” he replied. “I hope he says yes, of course.”

“I do too!”

“You know him, he’s a little weird about feelings.”

“He pretends he doesn’t have them, but he has a lot when you’re around.”

What a cute way of putting it.

“Now we just have to wait.”

Orléans never admitted it, but he didn’t sleep that night for his nervousness.

 

* * *

  

The next morning, Orléans found a note on his desk, propped up on the keyboard and computer monitor.

 _How did you even get in my office?_  
I don’t know what I’m doing here.  
This is just to tell you what my answer is.  
I hope it’s what you want to hear.  
  
Merde. I can’t write poems.  
Stop being so cute.  
It’s annoying.  
Of course I’ll be yours. 

It was the best poem Orléans had ever read.

 

* * *

Six months later

 

Charles d’Albret fixed his tie in the mirror for the fifth time in ten minutes. He had never been so nervous in his life. Not all the times he’d waited in the hospital for a report on the king’s health, not when he just barely prevented yet another war with Germany, nothing matched this.

“You better get out there,” Ramburres said, having just come out of the toilet stall. He walked up to the sink to wash his hands. “They kind of need you out there too.”

“I know,” d’Albret said, his teeth gritted. “I know what to do at my own wedding.” He checked his watch, grabbed his suit jacket, and ran out into the church foyer. He and Orléans were more or less Catholic, but they found a non-Catholic church that would let them have the non-clerical, religious part of their wedding. They’d already had the legal wedding at city hall earlier that day, but it was just in front of the necessary number of witnesses. Now came the big part—in front of colleagues from the government and family members. All of Orléans’ brothers and his sister were there, as was d’Albret’s mother, his only relative.  

“Dad!”

D’Albret turned around to see Joan, in her prettiest dress, run up to him. He opened his arms and gathered her in a hug.

“You ready?” He asked. She nodded.

“Are you?”

“I think so,” d’Albret said.

“d’Albret! There you are!” They looked up to see Montjoy, pushing his way past some clusters of people. “I’ve been looking for you all over. Where’s Orléans?”

“I don’t know,” d’Albret said.

“I want him to see this too,” Montjoy said. He was holding an envelope, obviously official royal stationary.

“What is it?” Joan asked.

“It’s something from the king to your dads,” Montjoy replied. He handed it to her. “You open it.”

“It says the king wants to congratulate Charles d’Orléans and Charles d’Albret on their marriage,” she said, handing it to d’Albret.

“…this is the King’s handwriting."

“As I said, it’s from the king. He’s sorry he couldn’t make it.”

“Charles!” d’Albret, Montjoy, and Joan turned around to see Orléans. Lord, was he beautiful. His eyes shown with a light he rarely had—and that he had a feeling would become the norm. His curls were carefully combed and he was impeccably dressed. He took d’Albret’s hands and quickly pecked his cheek. “Ready?”

“Absolutely.”

Before the ceremony commenced, d'Albret bent down to Joan's level. "Thanks for getting us together," he said. 

"Welcome to the family, Dad," she said happily.

d'Albret was beginning to think that he was going to like being a husband and a father.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Orléans uses as his proposal is one written by the historical Charles, Duke of Orléans!


End file.
